


Nocturne, Redux

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Endeavour, Inspector Morse - Fandom
Genre: Bunty Remembers Young Morse, Gen, I’m so so sorry, I’m sorry, Missing Scene, Post-“Remorseful Day”, The Memorial Morse Didn’t Want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:08:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: In 1999, Bunty Glossop from “Nocturne” sees an item in the Oxford Mail, and remembers the young detective constable who saved her life and listened to her when she was an awkward, scared girl.





	Nocturne, Redux

“Thank you, Professor.”

“You’re welcome, Sarah. Come back and see me if you have any more questions.” Beatrix Glossop, professor of English literature at Lady Matilda’s College, closed the door after her student, then returned to her desk. That day’s _Oxford Mail_ sat on it, folded underneath a small pile of mail, and she decided to play hooky for a half-hour, saving the college business for later. 

She skimmed headlines and articles as she paged through toward her real objective: that day’s crossword, until a small headline on an inner page caught her eye. _Longtime Thames Valley DCI Dies_. Normally she wouldn’t have stopped, but for some reason she glanced over it. A sentence leapt out at her: _DCI E. Morse, who had been with the force since 1965, when it was still Oxford City Police_ — 

“Morse?” There was a small black-and-white photo, grainy as all newspaper photos are, of a man with slightly unruly white hair. She reflected for a moment. He’d been young then, mid-twenties maybe? It could be him, grown older and now gone.

She’d been called Bunty then, still was by her oldest friends like Edwina Parrish, Edwina Burke-Harker for the last twenty-five years. They’d been students at Blythe Mount School for Girls together, and during the summer of 1966 they’d stayed over during the summer. They and poor Maudie—

“Oh, Maudie,” Bunty sighed. The guilt and sadness over her best friend’s death would never go away. They’d all been so young then, children half playing a game and half trying to protect themselves in the way children would think to do. Faking a haunting by Bloody Charlotte to scare off a man skulking round the school. But Maude Ashenden had paid with her life, and Bunty and Edwina had borne the guilt ever since, even though everyone had told them it wasn’t their fault.

And before he murdered Maudie he’d killed a man at a museum they’d all been visiting, which was how she’d met Morse, a detective constable then. All curly reddish hair and big blue eyes, soft-spoken and literary. And the only grownup in the whole affair who seemed to remember what it was like to be a child.

“None of this was your fault,” he’d told her firmly. “This is grownups’ doing.” Gave her his card and let her know she could phone him any time. Like a valiant prince come to rescue them.

“Oh, Detective Constable Morse, what big blue eyes you have,” one of the girls had giggled that night after his first visit, when the older girls were talking about how good-looking he was. For her, he’d been more like an older brother she hadn’t known she needed.

She read the brief article, looking for more clues as to whether this was the Morse she’d known. There weren’t any. There was also no mention of surviving family save a sister, Joyce, and her husband and son. No wife, no children. 

Well, when she went there’d likely be no mention of a husband or children either. She hadn’t really planned to be single. It was just how things turned out, and at forty-five she was at peace with it. She nurtured her students, had a small circle of well-loved friends, was godmother and honorary aunt to Edwina’s two children, and after all, she was hardly the only unmarried professor in Oxford. But Morse had had such empathy towards her and the other girls, it was a shame he’d had no children of his own. 

There was no mention of a service. Bunty picked up the phone. After a few rounds and a little time on hold, she found herself speaking to a Chief Superintendent Strange. “I know this will sound odd, but do you know if DCI Morse was involved in a case out at Blythe Mount School for Girls, in the summer of 1966. Only, I was one of the girls there. My best friend Maude was killed, and Morse was very kind to us.”

“Summer of ‘66—that was the World Cup, wasn’t it?” Bunty honestly wouldn’t know. She didn’t follow any sport. Edwina had taken her to Ascot once or twice after she’d married Henry, where they’d gawked discreetly at the royals and occasionally watched the horses. “There was a tiger—no, that was later. That pop band—we had so many odd ones back then. Morse was a magnet for weird cases, come to think of it.”

“But he had reddish-blond hair and blue eyes. Thin as a rail, and literary.”

“Oh, yes, that was Morse all right. He was at Lonsdale for awhile before he joined the police.”

“Will there be a service held for him?”

“He didn’t want one. Told me once he’d come back and haunt anyone who did a funeral or memorial for him. But that’s not going to stop a few of us gathering round at the cemetery and possibly pour out a pint or two of Radford’s best over him to see him off. Ten on Wednesday at Wolvercote Cemetery.”

Wednesday morning proved to be a perfect early-summer day. Bunty drove up to Wolvercote Cemetery and parked next to a few other cars. There were several people gathered, talking quietly. They were probably here for someone else, but it couldn’t hurt to ask. She spotted a couple who looked close to her age and approached them. “Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to be here for Morse, would you?”

“We are.” The man had a Geordie accent and a friendly air. “Robbie Lewis, and me wife Val. I was his sergeant for twelve years.”

“I’m Beatrix Glossop. I met him on a case in 1966, when he was a detective constable.”

“1966—you must’ve been a kid then. Then again, he wasn’t much more than one, I’d imagine.”

“I was twelve, and at Blythe Mount girls’ school. He was very kind to me. I happened to see the obituary the other day and phoned round until I reached a Superintendent Strange.”

“Ah, he’s here too.” Lewis indicated a rotund, balding man talking quietly with a few other people. “They were friends since back then.”

Lewis introduced her to Strange, who introduced her to the couple he’d been talking to: Keith and Joyce Garrett, Morse’s sister and brother-in-law, and their teenaged son Wayne. Then to Laura Hobson, a pathologist who’d worked on cases with Morse and Lewis, and a few other detectives. It was strange to meet these people whose connection to Morse went so much deeper. After all, she’d only met him for a handful of days nearly a quarter-century before.

The little group crossed the cemetery to where a new grave sat ready, the coffin already there with a wreath on top, and they took turns murmuring farewells. Bunty caught a few words here and there.

“Goodbye, matey. Raise a glass over yonder with Max and the old man for me.” 

“Goodbye, sir. I’ll never forget you.”

Joyce, wiping away tears. “Look after Marilyn.”

Bunty was the last. “I wish I’d looked you up once I became a professor. We could have cursed crossword setters together over lunch at the Eagle and Child now and then.” In 1966 she’d been obsessed with Alice, hadn’t she? He’d quoted _The_ _Jabberwocky_ to save her life. She leaned closer and murmured:

 

_In a Wonderland they lie,_

_Dreaming as the days go by,_

_Dreaming as the summers die:_

 

_Ever drifting down the stream—  
_

_Lingering in the golden gleam—_

_Life, what is it but a dream?_

 

The others were going to the White Horse to talk and reminisce. Bunty didn’t think it was her place to join them, having no stories to share, so as the others left she wandered the cemetery. Miss Symes was buried here, too. After inheriting the Blaise-Hamilton estate, she’d continued on as headmistress of Blythe Hill for several years, then retired to see the world before returning to Oxford in time to see Bunty earn her doctorate. She had left her unexpected wealth divided between a beloved niece and the school, so that Blythe Hill could offer scholarships to “clever, hardworking girls who otherwise might not have the chance to attend a school like this.”

She found the simple stone engraved with Bronwen Symes’ name, and spent a good fifteen minutes updating her old headmistress and friend on her life, before kissing her fingers and laying them against the cool granite. It was turning cloudy and the wind had come up, the day now threatening rain as she walked back to her car. From the past she could almost hear a quiet voice, touched with wry humor:

_The joys of an English summer._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
